


Stained

by snowpuppies



Category: BtVS - Fandom
Genre: Angst/Dark, BtVS Season 6, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2018-11-16 17:03:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11257155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowpuppies/pseuds/snowpuppies
Summary: Far away, Oz can feel the events of late Season Six.





	Stained

**Author's Note:**

>   
> **Title** : Stained  
>  **Author** : [](http://snowpuppies.dreamwidth.org/profile)[](http://snowpuppies.dreamwidth.org/)**snowpuppies**  
>  **Fandom** : BtVS  
>  **Character/Pairing** : Willow/Oz  
>  **Genre** : Angst/Dark  
>  **Rating** : R  
>  **Distribution** : Please don't archive or distribute without asking.  
>  **Summary** : Far away, Oz can feel the events of late Season Six.  
>  **Word Count** : 721  
>  **x-posted to** : TBA
> 
> **A/N** : Actually an expansion of one of the [haiku I wrote](http://snowpuppies.dreamwidth.org/318651.html) (v) for the [3 sentence ficathon](http://rthstewart.dreamwidth.org/87903.html)
> 
> Beta'd by Gabrielle! Thanks and kisses to her. :)

 

 

 

He's at a gig when he feels it—the world is wrong, _she's_ wrong, grief and rage mixed with dark magicks and blood—feels it down to his toes, the strings of his bass thumping clumsily as his system absorbs the shock.

There are no details—after this long away, his innate sense of _her_ has faded—but he knows, deep in the pit of his gut, that disaster is on the horizon.

 

 

_The blue of the sky is the wrong color_  
of her eyes ( **her eyes** ), shifting green and  
grey, colorless world without her, Amazon, strong  
and constant presence at her back, arms around  
her waist, lips of sunshine and manna, blackened by  
Death's grip (cannot be broken, not again). The world  
(the world she lives in) is gone. Empty. Silent. And  
nothing matters, not brownies or yellow crayons or sad  
brown eyes (the wrong color), and it all just Needs. To.  
End. 

 

 

The wolf stirs, restless, torn by the urge to join in the fray—rend and tear flesh from bone from blood and guts—and to protect the little pack he's formed: the band, a few girlfriends, a roadie or two. Good people, but not well-versed in things that go bump in the night.

Wolf or not, he's still Oz, still himself, and he gathers his pack, some stragglers along the way, and heads for cover.

 

 

_Gone, gone (gone). They're all_  
gone. **She's** gone, never to return, never to  
leave her scent—lilac and apples—on the pillow,  
golden hairs in the drain. No more. No. No comfort  
(friends) vaporized in the storm (lightning crackles  
in her skin) she doesn't fit, it's all gone, she's gone,  
doesn't know (who am I without **her** , with(out)  
them?) They're gone and the pain lives beneath her  
breath and it's Still. Not.  
Enough. 

 

 

They gather supplies. Food. Blankets. Water.

And they flee.

He leads the way, wolf howling beneath the surface for its mate, but she's his no more, in more ways than one, so he hides away, hides them all away, knowing it's only a matter of time.

Her power is immense; he's always known this, felt it skitter along his spine when they made love, tasted it against his tongue, sweet and cloying at the back of his throat, inhaled it, nose buried in her hair late at night.

He knows, perhaps better than anyone else.

Still, he has to try.

 

 

_The swirl of her (her) her echoes in_  
her brain like a waterfall, gushing through  
and over, under, between, drowning in the  
flood of **her** , taken, blood on her shirt  
(your shirt), and loss, crippling, rocks and  
waves crashing, and in the tsunami, **he**  
surfaces, silent and sure, gone as her, but  
not for good, not for (ever), he left, but he'll  
return. (She'll make sure.) 

 

 

The wolf bays at her call and he knows his time is up. The pack begs him to stay, but he knows the wolf has one loyalty, one mistress, and he'd not wish the bite of his fangs or the slash of his claws on those he loves.

He runs.

He manages eight days—better than he'd expected—but then, he's sure she's been toying with him for most of that time. For every step, every mile, he feels her whip, the collar around his neck tightening with every moment.

It breaks his heart to see her, black-eyed, her fiery tresses—he remembers how they looked against his skin, splayed over his bare chest—gone, replaced by a creature with no pity, simply fury.

But she's still his Willow.

 

 

_Howling echoes in her mind, calling_  
her home with every breath. **He** will  
not leave. His leash in her hand, tightly  
coiled about her fists, white-knuckled.  
**She's** gone, but he'll leave no  
more. The world spins, she tilts the axis.  
He is Hers.  
Alone. 

 

 

His skin splits, fur sprouting as he recites his mantra, clutches the shreds of himself, of _Oz_ , but she is stronger than he'd even imagined, and once upon a time, when she was sweet and innocent and beautiful—the brightest star in the sky that no one could see—he gave his heart away, and he has no right—no will—to take it back.

He screams as the wolf bursts forth.

She calls for blood.

It stains his fangs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_FIN_.

 

 

 

 

 

  



End file.
